


Anger Management

by mickmess



Category: NASCAR RPF
Genre: Gen, NASCAR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickmess/pseuds/mickmess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmie seeks justice after a rookie mistake during Daytona practice.</p>
<p>Completed: 02/11/2005</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anger Management

I.Cannot.Believe.Him.

It’s running through my mind over and over like some sick mantra. I.Cannot.Believe.Him. He’s been in the series for at least four years now, and he still pulls rookie shit like this? Who the fuck tries to bump draft in the middle of a corner? But of course, I know the answer to that one. I found out the answer to that one the hard way this afternoon when he fucking decided to bump me halfway through a turn and send me first up and then down the track. I figured out the answer when he caused a multiple car wreck, ruining half a dozen good cars, including his own. Fucking idiot. To think I used to like that guy. I hope he gets fired and never races again.

To say I’m pissed off is an understatement. Irate, that’s getting close. Fucking homicidal and ready to slam him into the nearest wall is more like it. When I got out of my car, which was miraculously unscathed, I stormed across the garage and threw the nearest object into a wall. My outburst sent at least fifteen people running in fear of their lives. Chad had looked up from the car, clipboard clutched to his chest, and shook his head at me. He was just as irate as I was, but he had the strength to control it.

When the reporters came over and asked me how I felt about what had happened, I wanted to laugh in their faces. Telling them how I really felt would have gotten me more fines than Junior dropping the S-Bomb last season. And I can’t afford to lose points I don’t even have yet. I tried my best to keep my cool in front of the camera, but the more I talked about it, the more fed up I got.

Once I got wind that they want to keep me out of a race if this shit doesn’t end, I became twice as livid. ME getting suspended because HE doesn’t know how to drive a fucking race car? That’s just ridiculous and completely uncalled for. However, we promised we’d work it out on our own terms without the help of NASCAR so that’s what I plan on trying to do. …with as little bloodshed as possible.

Although, I wouldn’t mind bashing his face in with my steering wheel.

I walk up to Kevin’s motor coach after an hour or so of trying to calm myself down and slam my fist against the door. I’d be thrilled if he didn’t answer, so I can just go back to stewing over it all. At the same time, I would love for him to open that door so I could swing my fist into his face.

Fortunately for both of us, Delana opens the door. She looks as thrilled as Chandra did before I left. Great, just what I need. Another wife to bitch at me about growing up. However, she steps off the coach and nods toward it, telling me Kevin’s waiting for me.

I step onto the coach and look around, seeing him sitting on his couch looking as happy as I feel. His eyes are fiery and locked with mine, his hands are balled into fists in his lap, and I can practically hear his teeth grinding. Talk about mirror image.

“Hi Jimmie. Come in. Sit down. Don’t have a drink,” he mutters, feigning false hospitality, slouching back into the couch.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I snap back, throwing myself down on the couch opposite his, “Let’s get this over with Harvick, I have a car to fix.”

He glares at me, “It was a fucking accident, JAMES. Get over it and move the fuck on.”

I sit up and lean forward with my elbows on my knees, trying with all my strength not to dive across the space between us and beat the ever-loving shit out of him, “An ACCIDENT? How about it was a stupid fucking move a ROOKIE wouldn’t even pull, you fucking asshole?! Who the fuck bump drafts in a corner?” I yell, my hands waving frantically as I do.

“Well maybe if you hadn’t come off the throttle with me right behind you, I wouldn’t have bumped you in the first place, you nimrod!” He shouts back.

Oh. Ok. So it’s going to be like that. He’s going to try and turn this around like it’s MY fault that he’s such an idiot. Right. I can deal with that. 

“Oh, you’re kidding me, right? What would you have liked me to do, huh? Stay on the throttle, have my car come loose, and go flying up into the wall so you could pull in front of me? Fuck off and die, Kevin. Don’t try and turn this shit around like it’s my fault. Go back to the Busch series where you belong.”

I stand up and walk towards the door, but before I can get three steps away, he’s on my back and I’m falling to the floor. This is just the kind of thing I’d expect from him. I throw my arms over my head, trying to shield his sissy excuse for punches, and struggle to roll over and knock him off of me,

“I’ll give you fuck off and die, you bastard!” He screams, his fist landing on the back of my neck, “You can go to hell, Jimmie Johnson, and you can take all those other assholes with you!”

I finally manage to get up off the floor, but he’s still clinging to me like white on rice. I get up onto my hands and knees and flip him off of me in what must look like some sort of pathetic attempt at an amateur-wrestling move. Before he can react, I have him pinned underneath me and my fists are making contact with his face. I can feel the cartilage in his nose giving out and suddenly blood is gushing everywhere. Shit. That wasn’t what I had planned on doing.

“Ow, FUCK!” His hands shoot to his nose and he starts squirming under me, trying to get up off his back.

I quickly jump to my feet, dragging him with me. I shove him to the bathroom and slam him down onto the toilet, snatching up a bath cloth for him to put over his nose. He starts to tilt his head back but I shake my head and push it forward again.

“Don’t you know you can drown in your own blood if you tilt your head back, you moron? God, I want you dead but I don’t want to be the cause of it!”

He coughs out a laugh and then groans as what I’m sure is excruciating pain shoots across his face. He sits there on the toilet for a few minutes before pulling the cloth away. It looks like the blood stopped, but I can already see his face swelling up like a Macy’s Day float. I’m going to be in some serious trouble when the officials find out about this.

Fuck that. Chad is going to break his clipboard over my head, Chandra is going to disown me, and Jeff is going to tie me down naked covered in honey in the middle of the woods. Then the officials will suspend me and never let me drive again.

“Damn, Jimmie. You couldn’t have just given me a black eye?” Kevin quips, standing up slowly to get a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

I shake my head, “Nope. Sorry, all those little thirteen year old girls that follow you around will have to go worship the ground Junior walks on now.”

“Damn, and just when I thought I was getting more of them than he was,” he snaps his fingers and sighs, “We’re going to be in a shitload of trouble after this.”

“WE? Try ME. I’m the one that gave you a broken nose. I’m going to get fired. They’ll crucify me.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it. I threw the first punch, I should get in trouble too.”

“Whoa, dude. Five minutes ago you were trying to blame all this shit on me to get OUT of trouble, and now you want to get IN trouble? You need to make up your mind, you ass.”

“Yeah well I think that right hook of yours knocked some sense into me.”

We stand there for a moment in the bathroom, both studying the horrid shade of purple that has taken over a good part of his face. His eyes are starting to puff up and it looks like his lip may have gotten busted up a little too. We may as well run away and pretend we fell off a cliff, because we are never going to hear the end of this.

“…We should probably get you to the care center and have that shnoz looked at before it falls off,” I say, clapping him on the back.

He cringes and elbows me softly in the gut, “Watch it man, you’ve done enough damage.”

I smirk, “Yeah, I have. Guess we’re even now.”

He rolls his puffy eyes and heads for the door to the coach with me on his heels. Hopefully NASCAR will decide we’ve punished ourselves enough and not suspend us. Yeah, fat chance Johnson.


End file.
